Sins of the Father
by Kurt
Summary: A new Crow arises to avenge herself and her boyfriend's death at the hands of a cult.
1. Default Chapter

_Author's note: Hi all, I'm Kurt, author of several Hannibal fanfics. This is my first venture into Crow fic. My Crow is an original character and the only series character is the Skull Cowboy, with my own take on him, but things will follow in the usual vein. _

_Dedicated to my wife, MT, Crow fan extraordinaire. _

People used to think that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes... only sometimes the crow brings that soul back to set the wrong things right.

The night was cold and foggy. Rain pattered down on the streets and turned the topsoil into mud. It was a cold rain, and anyone out in it would be miserable very quickly. It was a night when the only place to be was inside, warm and safe, staring out the window at the misery outside. 

Alice was not so lucky. She lay on her stomach, rain punching at her like a thousand icy needles on her skin. The dress she wore was soaked to the skin. She sat up and blinked for a moment. Sheer incomprehension crossed her face and drowned her mind. She struggled to her hands and knees and stared around at her surroundings, trying vainly to cover her head from the driving rain. 

Where was she? Why was she here? In front of her was a flat stone sticking out of the earth. Next to it, similar stones. She struggled to her knees and glanced behind her. More flat stones. Words written on them. She stared at the words, forcing herself to focus. The icy rain made it hard to concentrate on anything. 

There was a large hole clawed in the earth in front of the stone just behind her. On the stone was her name. _Alice Caulfield, 1981-2002. Sorely Missed. _In front of the stone was a large hole clawed in the earth. 

The realization hit her. This was a graveyard, and this grave had her name on it. But wait. She was…dead? How could she be dead? She could move and she could think. This…this made no sense. 

She stared at her own hands, fishy-white and pale. The rain had rendered her fingers pruney and wrinkled. But under her nails was black dirt. Black _graveyard _dirt. She glanced about her surroundings in utter confusion and bafflement. 

Glancing down at herself did not help matters. She wore a long, flowing dress. That was strange in and of itself: she never got _this _dressed up. She'd been a jeans-and-sneakers sort of girl, all her life. She wouldn't have been caught dead in something this froofy. 

Though maybe she had.

Cutting through the driving rain and the confusion came the harsh sound of a crow. _Caw. Caw. _Alice glanced up and saw the dark shape of a crow land on her tombstone. It watched her with eyes that were pools of oil. The rain pelted its dark, sleek feathers, but the bird seemed not at all troubled. 

Counterpointing that were the slow, dragging sounds of old bootheels clocking against asphalt. She turned around and saw a dark figure approaching her. At first she simply thought it was a man in a dark coat and hat. Then it came closer, and she gasped. 

The figure's face was that of a rotting skull. Long stringy hair hung down below the brim of the hat. It approached her, and she stared helplessly at it. In its eyes was something alive, but inhuman. The coat flapped open to reveal bare ribs through a torn and ragged shirt. 

"Well, hello there," the figure said, and approached. She didn't know how it could speak without lips, but speak it did. Then, it started in surprise. The gesture was surprisingly human for such an inhuman figure. Alice shrank back in discomfort and confusion. 

"You're a _girl_," the figure observed. Its voice was surprisingly deep and rich. Clearly male, from the sound of it. Its teeth grinned obscenely at her, strangely at odds with its tone of voice. She gaped at the figure and nodded with incomprehension. 

"W…what?" Finding her voice was harder than she thought. Her voice sounded gritty and weak to her. "Yes…what the hell is going on?" 

The figure glanced over at the crow, ignoring her query. "Is this the one? Are you sure?" 

A voice spoke in her mind. It suggested simplicity, not intelligence. A mind that operated off instinct and not much more – but _something _more. 

_[She is the one.] _It was a simple statement of fact, no more. 

The figure appeared somewhat dubious, insofar as a naked skull could show dubiousness. "Very well," it said. A hand reached down to courteously help her up. She stopped and stared at it, pain and confusion ruling her mind. The hand was merely bones held together by rotting tendons and decaying muscle. She could _see _them moving. 

"A girl," the figure mused, as if the female half of the species was something beyond comprehension. "I don't remember the last time you brought a girl back." 

Slowly, without understanding why, Alice reached out and took the inhuman hand offered to her. She got her feet under her and found they were bare. Her toes squished in the mud, but she was on her feet. She stumbled again and clasped her arms around her stomach. The figure gripped her arm; cold hard bone clamping onto her like talons. She shuddered. 

In the eyeholes of the revenant staring at her was some form of intelligence. It seemed to know what it was doing. Rain pattered down on the hat, but the wide brim deflected it away from the figure's head. 

"Follow the crow," the figure said, and gestured with that horrible skeletal hand. "The crow is your guide, and your link to this world. It will help you find what you need. I will be along to help you…shortly." 

The bird cawed again. Alice glanced over at it. It hovered on the gravestone, perfectly at ease in the pouring rain. Below it, her own name. This was incomprehensible. Two dark figures in a graveyard, and her own gravestone. Her own gravestone above a clawed-open grave. Was she…dead? 

But there were more important things than answering that question. She stared at the skeletal figure one final time. Then the crow arose and flapped its wings, cawing roughly. It didn't like being in the freezing rain either. Its eye watched her like a bright spot of oil. Then it flapped its wings and flew slowly away. 

Alice staggered after it, feeling her bare feet squish in graveyard mud. The rain pounded down, cold and icy. Ahead was a wrought-iron fence, standing at least ten feet high. How the hell was she supposed to get over that? She'd have to jump and try to shinny up the rest. The crow simply flew over and then landed, its scaly feet clutching a black iron point. 

Alice leaped, feeling the stupid dress swirl around her legs, and then something happened that she did not expect at all: her body kept going up, up, up, and then over. The imperious guardians of the points brushed the sole of one foot. Then she was over. 

Her arm caught on one of the points, and she felt flesh rip from above her elbow all the way down to her wrist. Cloth tore with a purring _riiiiip. _ _Fuck, _Alice thought. It didn't hurt, but it didn't have to hurt for her to know that this was going to need stitches at best. At worst, her arm might be screwed up for life. 

She landed in a bundle on the other side of the fence, the dress spread around her like a shroud, and stared at her arm. There was a gap where the flesh hung parted, but...

But it was _closing. _All by itself, as if some invisible doctor was not only _sewing _it shut but _closing _ it up, flesh and muscle knitting back together as if healing at super-speed. Which is exactly what happened, a moment or two later. 

Alice stared at her arm and back at the crow as if it had some answers. The bird's black beak opened and it stared at her with those intelligent oilspot eyes. 

_Caw, _the bird said. Lots of help there. Then it flapped its dark wings and began to fly away from the graveyard. Alice followed it, her feet slapping on the sidewalk. The rain kept most people off the streets, and those dark souls who were out paid her no heed. 

The crow banked left, down a dark alleyway. Alice stopped. She hadn't been a city girl all her life, but she knew better than to go into alleys alone. That was a good way to end up a dead city girl or a raped city girl. 

Then there was a bright flash before her eyes, and suddenly she remembered the pain. Stubbled faces made cruel with religious fervor above her own, steely hands on her arms and legs, holding her spread-eagled. The sounds of long-ago voices echoed in her ears. _Harlot! Whore of Babylon! She has betrayed the true faith and led a member of our flock into sin. Do your duty as Guardians of the Faith._

She tottered for a moment and thought she might vomit. She was already in the alley, about halfway down from where it opened onto the street. A few grunting forms hid out near the dumpster, seeking shelter from the rain. The crow had landed on a garbage can near a door and glanced at it, then at her. 

She blinked and studied the door. Big steel door. Big steel hasp on the door, bent so it would fit. Big steel padlock on the hasp holding the door shut so the junkies and bums wouldn't break in and steal everything that wasn't nailed down so they could sell it and buy crack or Mad Dog 20/20. _Um, problem here, birdie. _

_[It is not a problem. Open it.] _She blinked again and looked at the crow. Her small hand touched the door and twisted the knob. It did not turn. 

Strength she didn't know she had came to her from somewhere. Without even trying too hard – it sure didn't _feel _that way – the hasp groaned and screeched. She watched the hinges of the hasp bend, the metal crying out as if in pain. Her other palm pressed flat on the door to give her leverage, and with a final _thud _and a pop, the door banged open. 

The crow flew in as if making a grand entrance. Alice stumbled in after it, glancing around. No burglar alarm went off. That was surprising around these parts. The front window was covered with bars, but she could make out the logo on the window. Being out of the rain helped her focus. It was backwards when viewed from inside and she stopped a moment to look. 

_Guerrica Fashions. Fine women's wear for casual and elegant occasions. _Otherwise known as vendors of cheap clothing to women all over the inner city. She knew this place. She'd shopped here before, although she'd never ripped the back door open before. Their stuff was on the cheaper side. It had to be to stay in business here.

No alarm greeted her. If there was one it was silent. Still, she could take advantage of their fine women's wear, couldn't she? Her arm had magically repaired itself but her dress hadn't. Besides, she _hated _dresses anyway. 

She pulled it off and threw it to the ground in a clump of wet cloth. Under that, her body glowed white in the dim light. On her breasts and on her stomach were long, deep scars that she found herself staring at. They were hugely long and dark, tracing across her pale skin like a wound from a tiger's claw. When had she ever had those? She didn't remember them. 

_[Your death wounds,] _the crow informed her. It was sitting pretty on the cash register. _[Get what you need.] _

__Well, if she was going to get picked up for breaking and entering, she might as well have all new stuff. She removed her underwear, which had also gotten wet. A cheap rayon skirt on a nearby hanger served to make a decent towel. See, skirts were good for _something. _

First the small 'intimate apparel' area, for underwear and a bra and socks. She had to squint to make out the sizes in the faint light from the streetlight out front. Then a pair of black jeans, loose enough that she could move comfortably. Somehow, she knew that whatever was coming up next meant action. 

On top, a black shirt made of some sort of synthetic material. It clung to her arms, kept her warm, and would work out well for whatever she had to do. She turned and observed herself in the mirror in the corner of the store. Her face was much as she remembered: dark black hair, delicately detailed features, blue eyes. Not too bad...except...

Up one cheek was a similar scar to those on her breasts and stomach. The memory of fear and helplessness returned, seeing a blade approach her face. _Mark her! Let all see that those who oppose the True Faith suffer the consequences. The Jezebel must pay the price of her sins. _

__Anger flooded her for a moment. What had happened to her was wrong. What had happened to Chris? Was he all right? Another flash, another memory of his screams mixing with hers and a final, rattling gurgle. No, he wasn't. 

She brought her fist down hard at the memory. Glass tinkled and she felt slivers enter her hand. Odd that it didn't hurt. She watched it heal up, puzzled at that. It was damn _weird _to watch. 

Her hand touched a jar of white stuff and she pulled it out. White makeup. Sort of a weird thing for the store to be stocking, but there it was. Without knowing exactly why, she opened it, spinning the black lid through the air. Underneath was a white goopy substance. In spreading it on her face, she hid the scar they had put on her. 

The clocking sound of bootheels interrupted her reverie. She turned. The skull-thing was entering the store from where she had ripped open the door. It observed her from those not-quite-empty eyeholes. No human eyes remained to the revenant, but there was some intelligence in there, something glowing at her. 

"Feeling better?" it asked roughly. 

Alice nodded. 

The figure glanced around the store. "You're here to put the wrong things right," it said finally. 

She blinked at that. Her face seemed to glow in the faint light in the mirror. It made her look more like the thing that she realized, two undead figures standing in the middle of an inner-city clothing shop. 

"Put the wrong things right?" she asked. 

The brim of the thing's hat dipped up and down. "You can call me the Skull Cowboy," it said. "You and I have a few things in common. We're both dead." 

The news seemed somehow prosaic to her, as if she had always known and had only been confused in the driving rain. "And you brought me back?" 

The Skull Cowboy shook his – its? -- head. "No," he said, and gestured with a bony hand. "The crow brought you back. Me, I'm just...I work for it." It sounded disappointed. "First time it's brought back a _girl, _though." 

Alice glanced over at the crow. It observed its two minions calmly, not deigning to share anything. "There's a first time for everything," she said cuttingly. "There's nothing you can do that I can't." 

"This is not woman's work you have to do," the Skull Cowboy rejoined. 

_Great, _Alice thought. _ I'm arguing with a chauvinist skeleton in a cowboy hat. Maybe I've just gone crazy, wheeee!_

_[She is the one, Skull Cowboy.] _That inhuman voice again, not speaking but definitely heard. The Skull Cowboy jerked. He could hear it too. 

"Well," the Skull Cowboy said dubiously, "if you say so." It was not addressed to her. 

_[I do.]_

__"Then there is something missing," the Skull Cowboy said, and reached down. Fingers consisting only of bones closed around a tube from within the cosmetics counter. She still couldn't see how the thing was able to hold anything; the bones should have just fallen apart the minute they touched anything. But they didn't. 

He wielded a brush in one hand like some undead Rembrandt, and reached out. Alice held still, somehow knowing that the figure did not mean her harm. The brush touched her eyes, touching both of them in turn, then across and up and down, creating lines. Then at her mouth, coating her lips in black stuff and then out on her cheeks. 

She turned and looked in the mirror once he had finished. A harlequin looked back at her. Her mouth moved in a slight grin. 

"This will help frighten your enemies," the Skull Cowboy said. "So that they know death is coming for them. There are things you need to know." 

"And what would those be?" Alice asked. 

"You cannot be hurt. You noticed that on the fence, didn't you?" 

She nodded. 

"That is absolute as long as you do your job and keep the crow safe. That is where your power comes from. Guard the crow. You'll need him." As if pleased that it had been mentioned, the crow cawed. 

"Your job is to track those who killed you. Do you remember?" 

Rage flowed through her again, but it was cold rage, shunted easily so that she could master it instead of it mastering her. Her eyes narrowed. When she spoke, her voice was halting, but strong. 

"The...the Lambs of the Seven Seals," she whispered. "It was...a cult. Had a compound out in the boonies. We...Chris and I grew up out there. He was part of the cult, but I wasn't. We just lived out there. Their reverend always said that everyone else was damned, that only they were the elect. Chris and I...we knew it wasn't right. We wanted to be together. So we left there together. Moved in here, in Houston...just him and me. For several months." 

"And then they...," 

"Say it, Skull Cowboy," she warned. "_I _am not afraid of it. Are you?" 

If a skull could look nettled, the Skull Cowboy did. "No, I was trying to ...spare your feelings." 

"Fuck that," Alice said coldly. "Listen, I am a girl, okay? I have boobs. Get over it. I'll do my job. You do yours." 

The Skull Cowboy doffed his hat sarcastically, exposing hair still adhered to his scalp somehow. Alice could've lived her rest of her unlife without seeing that. But she stared back at him determinedly, even proudly. 

"I was raised to treat ladies proper, is all," the Skull Cowboy said with a slight drawl. 

"I'm not a lady," Alice riposted. "Now are you gonna tell me what to do or am I gonna have to start talking to the bird?" 

"Have it your way. Good, you remember. Sometimes people are confused when the Crow brings them back. The leader of the Lambs of the Seven Seals sent his men to punish Chris for leaving and you for stealing him. They broke into your apartment. Killed your boyfriend. Killed you. You are here to track them down and kill them. No mercy, no trials. Things have gone...beyond that. Feel no guilt or remorse; this is a decision the Crow has made. It is your task to carry it out." 

Alice watched him and nodded once, slowly, coldly. 

"Do that, and you will be reunited with...," the Skull Cowboy turned and looked at the crow. 

_[Chris.]_

__"Chris?" Alice asked. Her eyes widened. "How come he isn't here? Why didn't he come back?" 

The Skull Cowboy shrugged. "I don't know," he said judiciously, perhaps not wanting to be rebuked again by the crow. "The Crow chooses, not me." _Believe me, it wouldn't have been you if I was choosing. _He didn't have to say it; it was clear in those glowing eyeholes. 

"Chris is dead. So are you. But Chris is in the land of the dead, and you are here. Do this and you get to be with him...forever. Fail, and you'll be stranded here...forever." 

Alice took a moment to ponder that. She looked at the Skull Cowboy and found herself wondering if the world's boniest sexist hadn't, just maybe, failed himself in his own mission. 

"What about my friends?" she asked. She found herself thinking of Jade. After Alice and Chris had left the Lambs, Jade had followed them a few months later, setting up shop in inner-city Houston just as they had. Jade could help her if she needed it. 

"Are they alive?" the Skull Cowboy asked. 

"They _better _be," Alice said, glaring at him. 

"Then they're not your problem," the Skull Cowboy said finally. 

"They're not my problem, they're people I _care _about," she pointed out , tossing her head to the side. 

"There's no point. You are here for one purpose and one purpose only. The living will only get in your way. Work for them and they'll weaken you. There isn't time for you to get together and have a gab session with all your girlfriends." 

Alice glared at him but said nothing. She glanced down at his hips. Gunbelts crisscrossed his skeletal waist, and in the holsters silver revolvers gleamed. Compared to their owner they were in much better condition. She had no doubt they were as old as he was, but they looked like they would work. They gleamed with a patina of care. 

"How about you quit riding my ass for being a girl and lend me one of those?" she asked, pointing down at the pistols. 

The Skull Cowboy shook his head. "Nope," he said. "Those are mine." He glanced down and ripped open part of the lower cabinet. For a moment Alice thought this was just some pointless macho bullshit. Who the hell was he trying to impress? He was a skeleton! 

Then she saw a heavy steel box and realized what he meant. The Skull Cowboy ripped the box free from where it had been attached to the inside of the cabinet. Apparently his strength rivaled her own. He put the box on the counter. 

"Betcha there's one in there you can have," he said. "You can open that if you're not worried about breaking a nail." 

She scowled at him and debated the pleasure of pumping a few bullets into his head once it was out. Ultimately it wouldn't do a lot of good. Instead, she simply put one hand on either side of the box and ripped it open as easily as she would have ripped open a shoebox. 

She smiled. There was something tremendously cool about that. She didn't even have to think about it; it just happened. 

Her reward lay inside: a large black revolver not terribly different than his own. There was a box of bullets in there too, reading _.357 Magnum. _The damn box of bullets wouldn't fit into her jeans pocket without digging in. Hmmm.

In the front store window, a black leather trench coat hung next to a sign: _Ladies Leather Trench Coats! Imported Leather! EZ Lay-away terms. _She'd seen the trench coat before, with Chris, window shopping with him in this very neighborhood. She'd wanted it badly and jokingly asked if he would steal it for her. They hadn't had money for anything like that, though; all they had was each other. 

But it had pockets and it was somehow fitting. This would be her symbol of what they had taken from her and what they would pay. Besides, she could use it to hide the gun. 

Alice stripped it off the mannequin and put the coat on herself. It fit quite well, falling to her calves. The gun fit nicely in an inside pocket; the bullets she spilled into another pocket. The coat cloaked her neatly, disguising her small form. She liked it. 

"Not bad," the Skull Cowboy said, and gestured at the back door. The crow flapped its wings and began to fly. "Now follow the crow. Do your duty." 

The crow flew out the back door and back out into the alley. Her coat flapped around her as she ran after it. Alice followed the crow out into the alleyway. Now she had to begin her destiny. 


	2. Questions

It looked _so _innocent.

The Lambs of the Seven Seals were located far away, in the scrublands of Texas far away from the metropolis of Houston. The city was too sinful. Yet they, like many other groups, operated a small storefront church and office here. She had followed the crow through the streets here, and now she stood staring at the first outpost of her enemy.

It wasn't much. She stood in the street and looked at it carefully. Just a small office above a convenience store. A sign in the window read _Do you have questions? We have answers. _

Questions? Oh, yes, she had questions.

The crow landed on her shoulder and cawed. She could feel its feet digging into the leather. Yet it didn't hurt. Nothing could hurt her – physically, at least.

Then suddenly the crow leaped into the air and flew high, circling lazily around the building. She blinked for a moment as her vision shifted. Vertigo overtook her; it felt like she was moving, but she wasn't. After a moment or two she realized she was seeing through the crow's eyes. It flew up to a third-floor window and alighted on the fire escape. She tried to focus and see what it meant her to see.

She saw a man inside, lying on a bed. He looked rather clean-cut for the inner city. The room was spartan: only a picture on the wall and a dresser. The shabby carpet was astringently neat. She tried to make out the picture and her teeth bared.

_Him. _The Reverend. The leader of the Lambs of the Seven Seals. This man was one of his followers. He worked for him somehow. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did. The crow had spoken.

Alice headed down into the alleyway and glanced around. This part of Houston was pretty down at the heels. That was probably why the cult had a branch office here; the rent was cheap, too. Her heels were silent on the cracked asphalt.

To climb the fire escape was not difficult, although the aged metal groaned and creaked under her weight. Hopefully she would not draw his attention. In short order she was on the third-floor fire escape next to the crow.

She put her hands on the aged window and pushed. It was locked. That would've stopped most people, but she wasn't most people. For her, it seemed like she just pushed a bit harder. Old wood and metal whined and then cracked under her assault. The window slid up obediently, as if acknowledging that it had been bested.

With a rustle of black leather, Alice slipped into the bedroom. The man awoke and sat up, blinking crossly at having been awakened. Yet it was already too late.

Alice ran forward and grabbed him by his T-shirt. He reached under the pillow with one hand and came up with a pistol. Quick reaction time, she had to give him credit for that. Yet all the same, it wouldn't do him any good.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

Alice pulled him forward and felt the T-shirt rip under her grip. She leaned forward into the slot of moonlight, so he could see her face. She smiled horribly beneath the harlequin's mask.

"Vengeance," she hissed. Then she grabbed his gun arm, her left hand clamping onto his right forearm. For just a beat she glanced over his shoulder at the picture of his living idol on the wall. Rage coursed through her, charging her dead heart, and her lips skinned back from her teeth. Her fingers tightened, fueled by the all-consuming rage, and an audible _crack _was her reward.

The gun slipped from nerveless fingers, sliding silently to the mattress. Alice ignored it. An anguished scream came from her foe. She clamped her hand over his mouth to muffle any more, but otherwise ignored that too.

"What do you want?" he said, his tone jig-jagging up and down. His arm dangled helplessly in her grasp. Alice looked at it and realized what she'd done. It wasn't just broken, it was _curved _in the middle. Compound fractures provided the necessary flexibility. Between her own pale fingers his flesh was beginning to swell and turn red.

"Vengeance," Alice repeated. "Also, some information."

His face twisted in pain. "Please...I have no drugs.. I haven't got much. I am a religious man. I have money in my wallet on the stand. Take it and leave."

He thought she was an ordinary thief. Hearing anyone associated with that cult try to claim the mantle of religion enraged her again, and she slipped off the bed and threw him to the floor in one smooth motion.

"I don't want your money," she said. Her boot buried itself in his ribs, seemingly of its own volition. "Listen to me and listen good. I want you to answer questions. Do that and I'll let you live. If you lie to me _once..._I'll break every bone in your body. Do you understand me?"

The man blubbered and nodded. Alice leaned down and grabbed him by the hair. His face was a mask of agony, his eyes slitted in pain. He eyed his tormentor and then looked down at the floor in submission.

"What is your name?" Alice asked.

His breath hissed in and out. Yes, he was broken. That happened when people burst into your apartment with violence on their minds; Alice knew that well.

"John," he mumbled. "John Biden."

"John Biden. And what is it that you do for...the Lambs of the Seven Seals?" The last five words came out laced with hate.

"I...I'm an outreach coordinator," he said. "I...I run the office downstairs. I try and spread our Word."

"Your Word is hate and murder for those who try and leave," Alice snarled.

Biden flinched. "No," he mumbled. "We...we aren't...we're good people, you've made a mistake."

"_I _haven't made a mistake," Alice hissed. She thought of Chris, and of the love they had shared, and how she had been reduced to this: a cold corpse, fueled only by revenge. It was too much. She reached down and grabbed him; his body felt as light as a twig. To lift him bodily and throw him through the bedroom door was no harder than tossing a tennis ball. She followed him, her coat flapping like wings around her, and squatted over him like a vulture about to dine on its prey.

"Now, tell me, John. One year ago. The Lambs dispatched a...hit squad, I guess you could say. Four men to track down someone who had left and the girl he was with. You were here then, weren't you?"

John nodded, his eyes alight with terror.

"And you were part of that, weren't you?"

He held up his left hand, and for a moment Alice had to fight the vicious urge to break that arm too.

"I just...please...it was the Reverend's orders...I just set things up for them. I didn't...,"

His breath hissed in and out, and Alice realized belatedly that she must've broken a rib when she kicked him. Yet she felt no guilt. It had to be done, and he deserved it. Anything short of death would be a mercy.

"What did you do, John?" she asked.

"I...I helped them. I set up hotels, I got directions. I just...the Reverend said it was necessary," he said pleadingly.

Another wave of rage came over her. Alice grabbed his ankle and dragged him down the hall to the front door. If she looked at him she would break his neck. His body bumped along the floor. Occasional cries came from him as his injuries banged against the floor, but she paid them no heed. He had made sure her murderers slept in comfortable beds and knew where they were going.

Out the hall and down the stairs. That made him scream, and she grinned hard on hearing it. Then she was at the door marked _Lambs of the Seven Seals Office. _One kick was enough to break it off its hinges. She dragged him inside, picked him up, and threw him onto his desk. He made a pretty good broom; all the stuff on the desk fluttered and crashed to the floor. Lying little pieces of propaganda and flyers. And it all made her sick.

"I don't care if the Reverend said it was necessary," she hissed through her teeth. "You helped _murderers. _Two people and all they wanted was to live their lives and you helped kill them. How many others? How many have you killed because of what the goddam _Reverend _said?"

He flinched and covered his head. The shattered remains of a coffee mug laid next to his hand. Tears and snot ran down his face.

"Please...just that...,"

"Anything else you want to tell me?" Alice said.

He cowered and snuffled and shook his head.

"No other murders?"

He shook his head again.

"There was another girl who left the cult, by the name of Jade, a few months after we left," Alice said. "Did the Lambs do anything to her?"

He rolled over so that he could look at her from behind the feebly protecting arm. One eye stared out at her like a kid playing peekaboo. The other was hidden in shadow. She hadn't put that out, had she? It was hard to remember.

"We didn't kill her," he groaned. "Please...it hurts...,"

"It'll hurt worse if you don't tell me what I want to know," Alice said, and for a moment she was surprised at how flat and unempathic she sounded.

"We....just...she had to be taught the lesson...she's alive...,"

Alice bared her teeth at him. "What's her address? You must have it from when you sicced the reverend's attack dogs on her."

"I can't remember," he mumbled.

She stepped forward and grabbed his left hand in her right. She made a fist, clenching his hand as she had once held Chris's. But now, instead of love, it was fury and revenge that powered her grasp. Several small cracks and pops echoed distinctly from her fist. When she released his hand, it hung raggedly from his wrist.

"_Try," _Alice said, and smiled.

He gestured with his shattered hand. "Please...it's in there...in the drawer...red file...,"

He coughed. Fine red droplets came out of his mouth and misted the desk blotter. Alice opened the drawer. Sure enough, there was a red folder in there. She opened it and found printouts from Yahoo's people search. One for her and Chris. And one for Jade. Alice took that one out and stuck it in her pocket.

Now she knew what she wanted to do.

There was a filing cabinet nearby, and Alice ripped it open and pulled out the contents. A closet held more copies of their pamphlets and newsletters. She ransacked the desk drawers and confiscated the stuff on his desk.

All of it went into a neat cone-shaped pile. Biden glanced over at it and whimpered. He wouldn't last much longer. That was fine. She didn't need much longer.

"Please," he said. "Don't kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you," Alice said. "Your name is John, right? Like John the Baptist. He led the way for Jesus, you know. Well, you're going to lead the way for me, John. You're going to be my messenger. You're going to tell them that death is coming."

She leaned forward and grabbed him, forcing him to look at her. Her voice was cold and flat as a knife.

"It's scary when someone comes into your life and just attacks you for no reason you can understand. Isn't it?" She took the paper with her and Chris's address on it and waved it in front of him.

Shock and terror colored his pale face. He flinched.

"Are you...no, you can't...,"

"Yes," Alice said. "Jesus isn't the _only _one who can come back, it seems. But I'm not here to forgive."

She grabbed him one final time and walked over to the window. It, too, faced out onto the alleyway. It took only a moment to open the window. Then she grabbed him by the back of his pants and the back of his ripped shirt. For a moment she held him close, his head just ahead of hers. She could smell the coppery scent of fear-sweat on him as she spoke into his ear.

"You'll want to get out of here," she said. "This place...is unclean."

Then she threw him, with no more effort than it would take to throw a rubber ball. He catapulted out the window and fell, letting out a low moan as he tumbled and spun in space. She heard the _thud _of his body and a second cry as he hit the asphalt of the alleyway.

Never mind. He would live. He would suffer, but he would live.

Alice turned back to her pile and rummaged through the desk drawers again until she found what she was looking for: a half-used book of matches. She struck one and stared for a moment or two at the tiny flame. Such a small thing, barely capable of hurting anyone...but ah, how it could grow.

For fuel, she offered it the paper on which her address had been written. The tongues of flame ate hungrily at the paper, and reflex forced her to drop it to the pile. She watched the flame grow for a moment or two before turning to leave. This place would be cleansed.

Down in the alleyway, she took a moment to watch the growing orange glow from the window. Biden moaned a few times and flinched from her. She ignored him. He didn't matter anymore.

For just a moment, she wondered what she had done. She'd never done anything like that before. She'd never been violent in her life. Had she really broken into a man's home, beaten him half to death, and set the place on fire?

The evidence was indisputable. But what did that say for her? What had the Crow made her into? Was she here only for murder and pain?

The clocking of ancient bootheels made her head turn. She sighed and turned around. The Skull Cowboy entered the alleyway and eyed her for a moment from those ancient eyeholes.

"Nice work," he said calmly.

Nice. Was that the word for it?

"You think so?"

"Now you know what you have to do," the Skull Cowboy observed. "Get moving. You need to finish the job. And there's a lot left to do."

Alice felt the paper in her pocket.

"Not yet," she said. "I have something I want to do first."

The Skull Cowboy seemed annoyed. "The problems of the living are not your concern," he chided. "Do your job."

Alice turned towards the mouth of the alleyway. "I will," she said. "I just want to see one thing first."

She didn't look back. She just went.


	3. Humanity

Alice ran through the streets. A few rusty pickup trucks and low-riders painted her way with headlights. The city was dark; it was the dead of night. The receding screams of fire trucks let her know that her work in the outreach office had been discovered. Perhaps ol' Johnny had talked to the cops. She wondered what they would think of his story: that he had gotten his ass handed to him by a girl. A dead girl at that; one who he had helped to murder.

She could feel herself slipping. Violence had never been her path before. Sure, she'd learned to shoot shotguns and pistols before – this was Texas, after all. She'd gone out once with her brothers to track down a rabid dog that was prowling around, but that hadn't been violence as much as self-protection. It wasn't pretty, but life often wasn't. A quick death for a suffering creature had seemed the most merciful thing they could do.

Now, however, images of blood and pain flicked through her head. What she had done to John Biden didn't bother her in the least. She had broken his bones, shed his blood, thrown him out a window, and set his home aflame. And she felt no guilt at all. Only when she stopped to consider what she had done did it occur to her that she ought to feel bad. But she didn't.

It was a curious sort of parallax. She knew she ought to feel mercy, compassion, guilt. They'd always been there. Not anymore; they had slipped away like a long number she could no longer remember. She could only sense their absence through conscious thought. Her only reason for existing was for vengeance.

She had become something very different from what she had been.

She wanted her humanity back. All of it. She wasn't just a mindless machine for violence. She _wouldn't _be. If she had to take it back by force somehow, she would.

Jade's address was burned into her mind. She had to see Jade. She had to see what the Lambs had done to her. Biden had said they hadn't killed her, but that left a fair amount of room.

Houston had a fairly good-sized inner city, just like any big city. There was always a place where the poor and unwanted ended up. Even so, it didn't take her too long to reach the street on which her friend lived. No one bothered her along the way. There were a few shadows that moved and watched her as she went, but perhaps the bulge on her hip, along with the air of danger that hung around her, suggested that there would be easier prey elsewhere.

The building itself was low to the ground and blocky. It was grimy and covered with graffiti tags, like bestial markers of territory. The fire escape looked strong enough. Alice grabbed the ladder and felt pocked metal scratch her palms. It didn't hurt, though. Nothing did.

Her own strength faintly surprised her. She'd never been the wussy type, but the sheer speed and simplicity with which she scaled the fire escape surprised her. It seemed she could rip it right off the side of the building if she wanted to.

Alice made the third floor and cocked her head. The Crow landed on a metal bar and looked at her quizzically. She wasn't doing what it wanted her to do. She didn't care. There would be ample time for that.

The apartment inside was dingy. The furniture was thrift-store castoffs. The carpet was pocked with cigarette burns and stains. That was odd; Jade had always been neat. The window was locked and surrounded by bars. She tried one experimentally, and it was sturdy even if rusty.

Applying more force took care of that. The bar bent in her grip, crying out as she broke it from its mooring and pulled it backwards to get at the window inside. The bar on either side followed suit, and she had enough space to slip through. The window was locked, too, but the lock could not hold up against her strength any more than the bars had.

Her leather coat rustled as she slipped through the window. Inside, she looked around. There was a battered TV set on a crate. There was a couch covered with a cheap blanket. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, smelling metallic and unpleasant. Her nostrils flared. On an endtable, a remote control and a Styrofoam cup waited.

A metallic _click _crossed her ears, and she turned. Down the hall, a figure stood. Alice leaned closer and narrowed her eyes.

"Jade?" she asked.

The figure in the hall stood only four feet tall, it seemed. It seemed boxy and inhuman. In one hand it clutched a pistol, aimed directly at her. Alice wasn't afraid of the gun, but the figure would have no reason to know that. Then it moved forward silently, almost seeming to glide rather than walk.

"Jade?" she repeated.

"How the hell do you know my name?" the figure challenged.

Alice put a hand to her face, wondering if the makeup rendered her unrecognizable. The figure moved forward again, and Alice gasped.

Jade had been a blonde, pretty girl. She'd been born in the same small Texas town as Alice to hippyish parents. She'd made the jump to Houston shortly after Alice and Chris had left, hoping for better things. Alice remembered her as full of life, vibrant, eager to make her mark on the world.

The woman staring at her was far more careworn and harried. Her face was pinched and pale. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes burning with distrust. In her hands, she held an automatic pistol with the bore firmly centered on Alice's head.

She wore a dirty T-shirt and cheap denim shorts. Her legs were shriveled and stick-thin. Alice stared at them helplessly, overtaken by shock.

Jade took her left hand off the pistol and reached down to grab the wheel next to her. She gave it a sharp push and rolled forward. Her eyes, and the muzzle, never left Alice. She rolled the wheelchair forward into the light.

"Get the hell out," she said angrily. "There's no rock here, no cash, nada. Get out of here or I'll blow your brains out."

_Wheelchair. Wheelchair_. Alice's mind gibbered, caught on that like a fishhook. It was the greatest shock since her resurrection. Jade was in a wheelchair. A fucking _wheelchair. _

"Jade...it's me. Alice," she whispered, and reached out a hand.

Her answer was the report of the pistol, and then something immensely strong and powerful whacked her head. It was like being hit with a baseball bat while wearing a helmet. There was no pain, but there was an immense crack she could both hear and feel. Her left eye turned to jelly, and she could feel the nauseating invasion of the slug traveling through her eye and cheek into her brain. She fell to the ground as if poleaxed.

Yet before she hit the ground, the eldritch powers were already at work, as unconscious as sight. Her cheek began to knit itself back together. She lay on the cheap carpet for a moment and then opened her newly born eye. She stood up and sneezed. A small piece of lead expelled itself from her nose and rolled underneath the carpet. _How lovely, _Alice thought.

Now fear joined anger on her friend's face.

"Jade, dammit, it's me," Alice said.

The muzzle shook. "Alice?" Jade quavered.

Alice nodded.

"But you -- I saw -- you _died -- _what the hell?"

Alice shrugged. "I don't know," she said judiciously. "How the hell are you in a wheelchair?" She took a step forward. "What happened?"

Jade's cheek twitched. She put the pistol down and stared at Alice with disbelieving eyes.

"You're dead," she breathed. "Alice, I saw...I was there at the hospital...I was there at your _funeral_...," she shook her head. "You can't come back from that. You just can't."

Alice indicated the crow on her shoulder. "The crow did it," she said.

Jade's eyebrow raised. "A _bird _brought you back?"

_Yeah, and he has a skeleton handyman who's been making snotty comments too. _She stepped forward and held up her hands. "Jade, I don't know the how. I just know that I'm here, and I know what I have to do." She stopped and took a moment to try and gather her thoughts. "But I needed to see you."

Jade shook her head wonderingly. "Well...here I am," she said bitterly.

"Who did it?"

"Who d'you think?"

"The Lambs." Alice's voice was flat.

Jade nodded. "Oh, they broke in. Had a baseball bat and worked me over but good. Four big, strong boys. They said God had told them to punish me for encouraging people to leave." Her eyes rimmed in pain. "Tried the cops, but they didn't believe a bunch of clean-cut God-fearing white boys could do anything. Nothing happened."

Alice closed her eyes. In some dim way it occurred to her that it was good that she could feel pain; it meant that some piece of humanity remained to her. But most of her mind was furious and hurt and regretful. How could men do this? How could they do this and say God told them to do it? What God could demand a young woman's spine?

Her conscious mind didn't even register taking three sweeping steps across the room to her friend, nor grabbing her arms. She only heard the rustling of her coat and felt her friend in her grasp. She didn't quite understand herself what she was doing. But she knew she could, in some instinctual, inexpressible way.

She could sense her friend's heartbeat even though she held Jade by the arms. She could feel a great, sweeping void below her friend's ribcage. It was neither sight nor touch nor her own dead nerves that told her. She never could have explained _how _she felt it, only that she did.

Energy shifted within her. She could feel something coming from her own grip into her friend's body; in return something cold and retching and painful came from Jade to her. It was inexplicable, beyond her experience as human or revenant. Not sex – not even close -- but something even older and elemental. Alice drew the cold thing into herself and gave the energy to her friend.

Now, there was pain, real physical pain. It was as if some evil soul had kicked her in the stomach and doused her in icewater. Her knees jellied and she sank to the floor. She trembled and felt as if she might vomit. She raised suddenly helpless arms to her face.

Jade stared down at her from the chair for a few moments. Then, with the monkeylike speed of long practice, she grabbed the arms of the chair, lowered herself to the ground, and propped herself up on her hands. She pulled herself over to Alice with a wiry strength that was surprising to watch.

"Alice...how the hell did you do that?"

Alice swallowed mightily to keep from retching. "Do what?" she choked.

Jade stared at her own toes with an expression of almost ridiculous intensity. They moved slowly back and forth. She grabbed the couch and pulled herself up to a kneeling position, then slowly tottered to her feet. She stared at Alice in perfect befuddlement.

"That," Jade said. "Alice...I was _paralyzed. _I haven't done that since just before you died. They told me I would never walk again." Her legs, still stick-thin, collapsed under her like a gazelle's. She sat down on the floor. "How did you do that? And what the hell happened to you?"

"I don't know," Alice admitted, and tried to pull herself up. She wasn't paralyzed herself; her legs worked. It just felt like she'd taken a massive blow. Her strength had been drained away like a vampire's victim. The crow looked at her with disapproval and cawed. It flew out the window and landed on the fire escape. Its meaning was clear.

"I have to go," Alice said, and grimly tried to gain her own feet. They trembled, but she could stand up. How was she supposed to do anything like this?

"Should I call a doctor?" Jade asked, baffled.

Alice shook her head. "You shot me in the head and I blew the bullet out my nose. What would a doctor do?"

"Listen," Jade said. "Just...stay a while, stay until you feel better, Jesus H. Christ, I don't understand any of this--,"

Alice held up a hand. "I have to go," she repeated. "I wasn't supposed to come here. I...I have things I have to do. I'm sorry." She essayed a weak smile. "At least I got to see you again," she said.

She staggered out onto the fire escape and gasped. How was she supposed to do anything? She felt drained. Climbing up the fire escape had been simplicity itself; climbing down seemed an unattainable obstacle.

Somehow, she made it over the fire escape. One foot touched the ladder. The other slipped, and suddenly she was tumbling in space, only cheap laundry hung on clotheslines meeting her questing, numb fingers. She fell like a rock, and the asphalt seemed to tumble when she hit the ground.

She lay in the filthy alleyway, gasping, wondering if she could ever walk again. Would she spend eternity here in these dirty surroundings? It seemed so.

The sound of sprung bootheels clocking along the asphalt touched her ears. She was not surprised to see the dark eyeholes of the Skull Cowboy peering down at her.

"What have you done?" he asked roughly.

"I don't know," Alice said weakly. "My friend...she was...in a wheelchair...they...,"

The Skull Cowboy sighed. "Quit fucking around," he said. "The problems of the living are _not _your problem. Do your job."

"I couldn't leave her like that," Alice said, and let her head fall back against the pavement.

The Skull Cowboy shook his head. "Dammit," he said. "You do _not _understand. Who you were...your friends...your family...none of those things mean _anything _anymore. You are here to serve the Crow. Do its bidding."

"Fuck you," Alice said, unable to think of anything wittier to say.

The Skull Cowboy bent down and removed something from his boot. She tilted her head and saw he held a slim boot knife, the point gleaming between his bony fingers. The edge looked wickedly sharp. Moonlight skittered along the blade. With a deadly grace, the Skull Cowboy threw it.

The blade entered her stomach. It didn't hurt, but she could feel it there. She glared up at him.

"Having fun?" she spat.

"Teaching a lesson," he replied. "Pull the knife out."

She complied, fighting the brief but strong urge to reach up and stab him right in his bony ass. Instead, she simply tossed the knife to the ground and looked at him. The wound closed up as it always had, leaving no trace.

"What happens to you in battle is undone. What you give to the living..._that _stays gone." He crouched down by her and leaned over her as if to kiss her with his lipless mouth. She could smell the spoiled-cinnamon scent of decay and recoiled.

"You have to _listen,_" he said urgently. "Your days of playing with dollies are _over. _You are _not _one of the living! They can only drain you. The Crow is your master now."

"I couldn't leave her like that," Alice said, trying to get mad, trying to find any source of energy.

"Look where it got you. Weak as a kitten. You should have left her. Leave her now. She lives. You don't."

The crow landed on a dumpster nearby and cawed insistently. Both figures turned to look at it. The Skull Cowboy sighed.

"Very well," he said heavily.

He reached down and grabbed her arms, and Alice felt something in that grip. It seemed the reverse of what she had done in Jade's apartment. The flow of energy was reversed. Now the cold weakness left her, replaced by rapidly increasing strength. After a few moments he let go, and she was able to stand up again – strong again and renewed.

The Skull Cowboy staggered. Automatically, Alice reached out and grabbed his arm, thinking only a few moments too late it might come off in her hand.

"You all right?"

The Skull Cowboy sighed. "The crow will restore me in time," he said.

"What did you do?" Alice asked.

"I took your mistake for my own. Replenished you from what you gave to the girl upstairs. I gave to you from my strength."

She was silent for a few moments, aware that she could only understand what he was talking about in the sketchiest way.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

The Cowboy shrugged. "This is your mission, not mine," he said thickly. "Now. Go back to where you came from. One of the men you seek is here."

The crow looked at her and cawed as if to verify what the Skull Cowboy said. Alice nodded slowly.

"Go," he said. "Go...and shed their blood."

For a long moment Alice wondered what she had become, and what might lie ahead. The crow took off and began to flap its wings, flying down the alley to the street.

She abandoned her thoughts and followed it.


	4. Stiletto Heels

_Author's note: I haven't forgotten about this story. It's just been on the back burner for a while. _

The crow flew south, and she followed.

She realized, with some trepidation, that the Skull Cowboy had been correct. She wasn't part of the living anymore. Running after the crow in the warm night, the thoughts that ran through her head were nothing more than her task at hand and her drive. She could remember healing Jade, but anything beyond that was slipping away. If she stopped and forced herself to remember, she would be all right.

It was frightening, and the most frightening part about it was that she really didn't seem to notice. Her humanity was slowly slipping away, and she had to consciously force herself to retain it.

What would happen when she couldn't do that anymore?

The crow brought her back to the store from which she had taken her clothing and weapon. No one was there yet. That surprised her; she would have figured _someone _would have noticed the place had been broken into by now. What would the crow want her to get here?

It landed on a hanger containing a short leather miniskirt and cawed. Alice scowled. Was even a _crow _sexist?

"No," Alice said shortly.

Unrelenting, the crow flapped its wings and flew over to a display of sheer thigh-highs. It eyed her again with those disturbingly intelligent eyes.

"From bad to worse," Alice told it. "_You _can wear those if you want. Wasn't ever my thing."

_Camouflage, _the crow spoke in her mind. _Your next target has a taste for female flesh. You must get close to him before you can strike. _

The idea was clear enough, but she didn't like it. She'd never been that kind of girl anyway, and she was, after all, dead. Strutting her stuff in a miniskirt and heels seemed to be not just distasteful but _revolting;_ an act of reverse necrophilia. _Hey, hey, check out the hottie dead chick. _

_This is the way, _the crow said.

Alice sighed. "Fine," she said heavily. "You can make me do it, but you can't make me like it."

It didn't take too long to change. She grabbed a large purse hanging on a coatrack and stuffed her pants into it. Damn if she was going to strut around like this for one instant longer than she had to. Hopefully the damn bird would be satisfied. It felt obscene to be doing this, in more ways than one. She'd always hated nylons, and she'd never worn skirts anyway, let alone miniskirts. She felt uncomfortable and exposed. This wasn't hunter's garb.

She grabbed a pair of stiletto heels and put them on, expecting her feet to ache. They didn't. She was aware of being off balance, but there was no pain. That, too, had slipped away. She felt discomfort, but the hose didn't itch and the heels didn't hurt. Apparently, her invulnerability extended to any sort of pain.

_The secret to wearing heels. Be dead, _Alice thought sourly.

The crow cawed at her impatiently. She glared at it and then tiptoed out into the night.

* * *

It was shocking what the sinners could do. 

Jason Thomaston had been a sinner himself, once. He had been through every shame that God could inflict on him before he had accepted the Truth. The Lambs of the Seven Seals had reached out to him in prison. He had written them, and they had helped him.

At one time, he'd been skeptical. What could these men do that others couldn't? How foolish he had been. The Reverend was far more than an ordinary man. He held the power of prophecy, and when the time was nigh, he would open the seventh seal and bring about Judgment Day.

There were those who said that the Reverend was cruel, abusive, the leader of a cult. They were wrong. The Reverend could be very forgiving. He had forgiven Jason his sins. He had cleansed Jason and made him whole. Now, Jason was one of the Warriors of the Way. He was a member of the elite, those who would be cleansed when the Reverend opened the Seventh Seal.

He was good at it, too. He kept the faithful in the flock, and sought out the heathens who would destroy their way of life. The Lamb of God needed warriors, and that was what he was.

But he was still a man, and a man had needs and wants. As a Warrior, he was allowed privileges that others were not. Reverend kept his flock close, so that they would not be tempted by sinful ways. Warriors had to go out and do battle with the heathens, and they needed to be more aware in the ways of the world.

On occasion, when called out to do battle for his lord, Jason would indulge his taste for womanflesh. It was easy to find loose women, and for twenty or thirty or fifty dollars they would satisfy his tastes. He usually liked the younger ones best.

The Reverend forgave him that, too. It was rumored that the Reverend shared that taste. Young women in the Lambs were occasionally called upon by the Reverend to provide him with womanly company. But, of course, the Reverend was above judgment. He was God's messenger.

Jason did not drink or smoke; he did not use drugs. No one in the Lambs was allowed to defile themselves with such things. He had before, in his previous life. But now he was a Warrior of the Way. All the same, the touch of a woman's thighs, her breasts, her flanks, her lips...that was a compelling addiction, and one he could not overcome. His visits to Houston had provided him with a dark place and willing women to slake that thirst. Trips into Houston had provided him with that opportunity.

Not now, though. The entire outreach office was ruined. Fire had consumed both the apartment in which John lived and the office below. John himself was in terrible shape. His arms had been not just broken but crushed. His ribs had been broken and he'd suffered a punctured lung. He was in the hospital now, in a dark morphine daze. Jason had tried to question him and find out what sinner, what heathen, what Babylonian had done this.

John had mumbled a crazy story about a woman who had come back from the dead. That was simple nonsense. Jesus had come back from the dead. Jason didn't doubt that Reverend _could _come back from the dead, but the idea that some woman could was crazy. Still, the other man's words haunted him. _Death is coming. _He'd repeated that over and over, reaching out with his shattered arms, his eyes deadened by narcotics and horror.

The things the heathens could do.

Jason glanced over the blackened remains in the office. Nothing of the holy truth they told remained. All the paper, all the brochures, everything they were trying to do had been destroyed. The portrait of Reverend that had been on the wall was ruined; a melted and darkened piece of glass protecting a charred square.

Someone would pay. He would see to it. Under no circumstance would this go unpunished. The righteous had the right to defend themselves against the heathens. So had Reverend said, and so it was.

As a Warrior of the Way, he was allowed some privileges that normal members of the flock were not. One of them was a cell phone, paid for by the Lambs. He took it out now and dialed a number. For a few moments, there was silence. Then the phone was picked up on the first ring. The rich, stentorian tones of his lord filled his ear.

"Yes," the Reverend said.

"Reverend, it's Jason. Someone trashed the outreach office. It's a total loss. John is in the hospital. They attacked him."

A moment of silence. "Heathens," Reverend said distastefully. "There's nothing they won't do. Do we know who did it?"

"No," Jason said. "The police are looking it over."

Reverend sighed. "They won't do anything," he said scornfully. "They are heathens too; they enforce the law of the heathen. See what you can find. If someone is attacking us, I mean to know who it is."

"Yes, Reverend," Jason said, and tilted his head. The fire had started from a pile of papers. He could see it in the office. Now, the blackened ash resembled an odd shape. Was it a misshapen cross? No; it looked more like...a crow.

"Get a hotel room in the city," Reverend instructed. "I want to know who did it. Keep on top of the police. See if you can find anything. Anyone lurking around the building...do what you have to. You understand how these sinners think."

Jason nodded. "You can count on me, Reverend," he said loyally. The Reverend hung up. Jason glanced around and sighed. There was nothing there for now.

He still had some former associates in the city, and they might be able to shake out some information for him. A lot of them didn't understand him. They were heathens, and he had turned away from his heathen ways. He wore white shirts and ties and kept his hair short. Even so, the bonds of prison might be enough.

He was tired, though, and morning was not far away. The drive out from the compound had been tiring. Adrenaline and caffeine had been his only fuel. He wanted to relax. A night's sleep, a meal, and he could start finding something for the Reverend.

His car was parked on the street, not far away. It, too, was respectable: a dark blue Chevy, with plenty under the hood. It was astringently clean. He always kept it so; a Warrior of the Way had to set an example for the flock. No one had bothered it, and in an area like this, that _had _to be a sign of God's favor. Now all he had to do was find a motel for the night. He was torn. Part of him thought of heading for a better part of town and getting a room there. The criminal he had once been thought of obtaining a room around here, where he would be more likely to find someone who might know what had happened.

He headed up the street, pleased by the roar of the engine. His eye fell upon a girl, walking up the street in a short skirt, and suddenly his decision was made. It would be here. A hired woman's touch would be just the thing to take the edge off tonight.

You couldn't tell much from the back, but what he saw was nice. Legs that went on and on, nicely displayed in sheer black hose and high heels. Her skirt barely covered her behind. Her hair was dark black, hanging down to about mid-back.

Definitely a pro, he decided.

He pulled over to the curb smoothly and lowered the window. The girl looked around.

"Hey," he said. "You going out?"

Usually, the response was _You looking for a date? _or _You the heat? _This one must be new to the trade. She simply tilted her head, remaining back in the shadows. After a moment, she spoke.

"That depends," she said.

Out of nowhere, a crow landed on his windshield, gripping the windshield wiper with its nasty little black feet. Jason scowled at it and turned the wipers on to shoo it away. The bird did not seem frightened. It simply stepped off the wiper with a curious, finicky sort of grace and stepped onto the hood.

"Get away, you stupid bird," he said, and turned back to the girl. "Depends on what, sweetheart? If you're thinking I'm gonna cheat you, don't worry. I'm an honest man."

She swirled forward then in a fluid, flowing motion that was too quick to see. Only the quick _tap tap _of her heels and the _chunk-kachunk _of the car door even told him it was happening. Before he knew it, the girl was in his car, perched on the passenger seat.

Up close, she was wearing some sort of freaky makeup. Her skin was painted dead white, and her eyes and mouth had been colored in dark colors, like a harlequin. Crazily, Jason found himself thinking of a prisoner on his old cellblock who had painted harlequins like that. He'd been good, very good, a murdering sinner who had an eye for art.

"An honest man," she mused, as if nothing had changed. "Well, that's something, I suppose. A...religious man?"

Jason frowned. That was a weird question. "Well, yes," he said.

"Ah. A Godly man." She sounded sarcastic. "A man who believes in the...Lamb."

Years of righteousness hadn't dulled his instincts. She knew something. Jason dove across the seat to grab her. His reflexes were still with him, and he went right for the throat.

If his reflexes were good, hers were inhuman. She brought her right foot up to her right hand, slipped off her shoe, and backhanded him with it. A wave of pain flared in his cheek, making his eye water. He heard a flat punching sound and suddenly realized that the bitch had punctured his cheek.

"About time a man knew how much heels hurt," the girl said reflectively. Then her face changed, furrowed with rage. From a pretty girl's face to that of a harpy, a warhag.

Instinct drove his hand to his wounded cheek. Blood puddled in absurdly amounts, and he could feel a _hole, _a freaking _hole _in his cheek, and he could feel a pinpoint of air on his tongue. The girl used her advantage neatly, tossing the shoe into the back seat and bringing up a large black pistol out of her large purse. She rammed it into his throat.

"If you don't want any _more _holes in you, then I suggest you drive," the girl said.

"Who the hell are you? What do you want?" Jason asked.

The girl leaned in close. "Don't you remember me? I remember you. You and your cult." The barrel jabbed him again. "Drive."

His hands trembled. How could a tiny girl like this get the drop on him so quickly? He turned, blood dribbling down his face, and took the wheel. The engine revved. What was she going to do? Who was she? All this because he had simply wanted some paid company for the night?

She didn't take him far. "Turn here," she said abruptly, pointing to an alleyway. The big car barely fit. He guided the car inside, nervous and shaken.

"Stop," she commanded. "And get out."

"Are you gonna kill me?" he asked.

"That would be fair," she said darkly. "You killed me, after all." The barrel of the gun pressed against him again. "Out."

She followed him as he left the car, never letting him out of her sight. Jason swallowed and tried to figure out what he was going to do. He could knock the gun out of line faster than she could fire it. He had to figure out how to get it away from her and shoot her. Preferably not kill her, so that he could extract information from her. If some psycho had a war against the Lambs, it was his obligation to see she never reached his flock.

Thinking of his obligation gave him strength. He felt his confidence return. Turn, grab the gun, wrench it out of her hands, then shoot her in the knee or something. Shame to ruin legs like that, but it couldn't be helped.

The first part of the plan worked fine. He turned just a bit and brought his right hand up to grab the gun, pushing it away from his face. He got it away from her just fine, turning and putting his body weight behind the shove. Oddly, she let go of the weapon, as if it was a mere afterthought. In a fraction of a second, he looked at her face and saw a slight smile, as if this was all terribly amusing, and she was glad to be rid of the gun after all.

She moved forward, and struck him three blows that happened so fast they seemed to be one. One was a clawlike hand that struck him in the face. His nose broke with a hollow crunch. The claw raked at his eyes, questing for them under his eyelids, and he felt another blast of pain. The second was a punch to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him. It barely seemed like such a small thing could hit so hard; this was a punch he expected from a lumberjack or a biker. The third was a kick to his groin that made his eyes water. His balls exploded into agony. The pain was incredible; monstrous, as if a red-hot iron had been ground into his groin.

He writhed on the dirty ground, his head only a few inches from the car. The headlights threw stark witness to his misery. The woman crossed around the car to get to him. She slipped her heels back on and loomed over him.

"So," she said reflectively. "Here you are, murdering people and picking up whores. How...Godly." Her voice dripped contempt. She placed a foot on his thigh and began to bear down.

Jason couldn't speak; the pain was too much. His face was red and pinched. He tried to gasp air into his lungs, but his throat seemed a pinprick. His injured eyes could barely focus.

"I was where you were, once," she said. Her voice turned harsh and angry with hate. "On the ground, savagely beaten. My boyfriend and I. And _you _were there. Don't you remember?"

Looking into her face through his slitted eyes, despite his agony, he did. God help him, he did. The girl who had gone with the fallen-away. The Jezebel. But it couldn't be; she was _dead. _He'd seen it himself.

_Death is coming. _That was what John had said, and it sure wasn't a morphine daze sort of a thing, it was real. He could smell it and taste it as she walked around to him on those divine legs. She didn't bother to bend down. _Death is coming, _his mind gibbered, it had come for John and it was coming for him, and he knew what lay ahead.

The girl laid one high-heeled foot on his throat, carefully arranging the position of her heel. Jason stared helplessly up, taking in her leg in the sexy black stocking, looking up her skirt. There was nothing exciting about it, because he knew what she meant to do. He wanted to fight, but he couldn't move.

Then another punch, sound and feeling combined into one, and the stiletto heel was in his throat, driven by her body weight. His eyes teared up anew, and his vision blurred into a prism of headlights and neon. He could feel warmth trickling down his neck and hear something pattering on the pavement.

"Yes," he tried to gasp, but the air died in his lungs before he could finish the word. He tried to hold out a hand, tried to explain that he was a Warrior of the Way and that he was just following the orders of Reverend, but before he could, the world slid away into blackness.

* * *

Alice observed the man before her with no shame or guilt. She had done what the Crow wanted her to do. She wondered for a moment: move the body, or leave it? The crow landed on the hood of the car again and cawed at her, as if pleased. 

The sound of worn bootheels made her turn and roll her eyes. She dove for the car. Whatever comments the Skull Cowboy might have, she didn't want to hear them. Her bag was on the front seat, and she pawed out her pants and boots.

The Skull Cowboy did not speak when he saw her. Instead, he took a moment to look at what she was doing and then turned. His duster rustled as he held it open, looking strangely batlike, to hide her from anyone who might be looking in the window.

She took off the hooker garb and put on the pants. Now she felt much more at ease. Slipping her coat back on, she stepped out of the car and addressed the Skull Cowboy.

"Thanks," she said.

The Skull Cowboy nodded. "You're welcome," he said shortly. As he turned and his coat slipped closed, she noticed his beltbuckle. It was brass, and looked old: the once-shiny metal had been battered and beaten by time so that it had gone completely dark. She could make out two raised letters – CS.

"You need to leave the city," he said. "The remainder of your prey is out there." A skeletal hand gestured.

"All right," Alice said, her mind still focused on the belt buckle for some reason. "You coming?"

The Skull Cowboy shook his head. "This is your battle, not mine. If you need me, I'll be there."

Alice paused. "If I'm going home, then it's a long walk," she warned.

The Skull Cowboy appeared to grin, even though he couldn't, as he had no lips. "I go where the Crow needs me." He looked at the car with some dubiousness. "I don't like those things, anyhow."

"Cars?" Alice asked blankly. "What's wrong with cars?"

He just shrugged, dismissing it.

"Just how old _are _you, anyway?" she asked suddenly.

The Skull Cowboy shook his head. The crow cawed.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Go. Find your prey."

Alice waited a beat. Something felt missing; wrong. Then she remembered.

"Would you lend me your knife?" she asked.

The Skull Cowboy seemed surprised, but he removed the boot knife and gave it to her. It, too, was old: the blade had gone gunmetal gray over the years, but the streetlight slid lovingly along the edge. Alice held it thoughtfully and picked up one of the stockings. The flimsy fabric purred apart under the knife as she cut, her hand guided seemingly by itself.

It didn't take long. Alice tossed the rest away and laid the piece of nylon on the dead man's chest. Her signature. A stylized crow. Now everyone would know in whose name this deed had been done. Now, she was ready.

Alice slid behind the wheel and flexed her hands. This would do. She dropped it into reverse, backed out slowly, and pulled out onto the main drag. The Skull Cowboy might not be coming, but the Crow did. It flew in the open passenger window and landed on the headrest, looking imperiously about its surroundings.

It didn't take too long to reach the highway, and Alice left the city behind. It would end in a small town. A small town where she had grown up. A small town where she had always seen the Lambs of the Seven Seals and wondered who they were. A small town where she had met one of them, fallen in love, and left to seek her fortune with him in the big city.

It would end where it had begun.


End file.
